


Solving A Problem of Time

by alyseofwonderland (Esyla)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mild BDSM, Slight Bondage, Vimes and Vetinari have such and interesting power dynamic and i want to play with it, What if Sybil wasn't around, Who would keep Vimes busy?, post Men At Arms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esyla/pseuds/alyseofwonderland
Summary: It was a question of distraction. Humans needed to have more than one thing going on in their lives, not because it made them more productive but because it made them less. Captain Samuel Vimes had proven himself to be extremely efficient when he put his mind to it, and The Patrician was not amused. Oh, it was all well and good now, this time, when he was the one who benefited from these aptitudes, but there was bound to be a time in the future when Samuel Vimes would be a problem. When that happened he would need something in his life besides The Watch.Samuel Vimes did not have hobbies, outside of drinking, and he appeared to be giving that up in favor of doing his job. The horror. He had no living family, and the only friends the Captain appeared to have were his coworkers.Something would have to be done.





	1. Vetinari

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I drunkenly tripped into this ship like a week ago. And it’s be A RIDE. 
> 
> But something I noticed was that all of the fics have Sybil kind of shoehorned in, or folded in somehow. And I am all for my girl. I love her. But maybe, just maybe, I want explore a dynamic without her in the mix at this particular moment. So let’s say for the sake of argument that after her father died she packed up and moved to…. Quirm to breed dragons where it’s nice and warm. She has servants who check on the properties and whatnot, but she is off having a grand ole time breeding the shit out of those swamp dragons. And let’s just say that there are other people in the city who have swamp dragons so Vimes bothers a handful of them, and maybe a few of the chases happen slightly differently but it’s the multiverse alright, it basically ends the same. 
> 
> I blame rebelflet on tumblr and [this image](http://gaywerewolfmarried.tumblr.com/post/174273261945), [and this image](http://gaywerewolfmarried.tumblr.com/post/174272994760/rebelflet-discworld-aaaaaaaa-3), [and this image](http://gaywerewolfmarried.tumblr.com/post/174273264655), for this fic. And the spiral. And about 16 hours worth of screaming.
> 
> I want to thank [my alpha Jane](https://msridcully.tumblr.com/) for reading this as I was writing it, because i kept screaming "is this good? tell me if this is good!". I need to also thank [my beta Cher](http://cher-locked.tumblr.com/) who put up with yet another argument about spelling. This time we got stuck on the word 'grey' and wether or not to go with the UK or the US spelling. 
> 
> Part 2 coming soon.

It was a question of distraction. Humans needed to have more than one thing going on in their lives, not because it made them  _ more _ productive but because it made them  _ less _ . Captain Samuel Vimes had proven himself to be extremely efficient when he put his mind to it, and The Patrician was not amused. Oh, it was all well and good now, this time, when he was the one who benefited from these aptitudes, but there was bound to be a time in the future when Samuel Vimes would be a problem. When that happened he would need something in his life besides The Watch.

 

Samuel Vimes did not have hobbies, outside of drinking, and he appeared to be giving that up in favor of  _ doing his job _ . The horror. He had no living family, and the only friends the Captain appeared to have were his coworkers.

 

Something would have to be done. 

 

* * *

 

 

Millicent Buttonstone was of decent stock. Not so poor that she was a criminal all the way down and not so rich that she was a criminal all the way up. Her father ran a shop that she was now mostly running herself since he had reached that point in life when his main occupation was general disgruntled rumblings. 

 

She was the right age, or about the right age. Not so young that it would be unseemly or so old that it would be unheard of. Most importantly she had a sharp temper and was single. Her looks were not completely gone, and he had it on good authority she was not completely against the existence of The Watch.

 

It would be a simple thing to get them together. Samuel Vimes would be besotted, and all would be right in the city. Everything in balance once again. 

 

* * *

 

When the woman finally took a breath in her rant, Vimes turned and called for Carrot. He hadn’t really been paying attention.

 

“Corporal Carrot, can you come sort this out?” Vimes half shouted, but not really because there was never really any shouting around Carrot. 

 

Two months later, when Miss Buttonstone was standing in the watch house once again, Vimes rolled his eyes.

 

“This is bordering on stalking,” he accused. 

 

She threw up her hands and shouted, “The Watch is bloody useless.” And then stormed out.

 

* * *

 

“Perhaps a less direct approach,” Drumknott offered, handing over the list of possible ladies to The Patrician. 

 

“Indeed,” Vetinari considered the list. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange  _ random _ meetings.” He handed back the list with a few marks to indicate the prefered ladies for this leg of the endeavor. 

 

“Certainly sir.” Drumknott took the papers and left. 

 

* * *

 

“Is it just me, Nobby, or is the Captain bumping into women a lot lately?”

 

“What’d ya mean?”

 

“Well, just yesterday he nearly tripped over that lady on the way out the door.”

 

“Oh, we not gonna talk about Lance Corporal Angua?”

 

“That’s not the same, Nobby, she’s a W—”

 

“What are you two muttering about?” Vimes asked extracting himself from a tangle of skirts that belonged to a woman who had landed on top of him from a second-story window a few moments ago. Nobby and Colon stiffened. 

 

“Nothin’ Captain,” they answered in unison.

 

* * *

 

Repeat exposure did not seem to improve matters. Captain Vimes appeared to find women a nuisance at best and frightening at worst. He had several reports in front of him that claimed Vimes had, at one time, been in what was considered a sexual relationship with a woman. However, no one could say who or really when. The Sergeant didn’t even have the particulars, and he had been on The Watch with Vimes for nearly two decades. 

 

Vetinari pulled a leaf of paper from the middle of the stack and considered. Perhaps this trap required an entirely different kind of sweet. He scanned the list. The variety of this list was encouragingly as diverse and long as the first. 

 

* * *

 

“Captain, what is going on with your head—hair?” The Patrician asked after an extended silence.

 

“Hairdressers next door offered me a free haircut,” Vimes offered with a shrug.

 

“I see.” Vetinari did not frown. He simply shuffled some papers and dismissed Captain Vimes. “Drumknott,” he began after the captain was gone, “have the hairdressers moved at the earliest convenience.”

 

* * *

 

This list was not going any better than the first. The gentlemen were all perfectly eligible and well enough to do that they could not only support themselves but make Captain Vimes better. With the men, at least, he wasn’t forking them off to Carrot at the earliest moment but instead seemed completely dense to any advances. 

 

Vetinari was starting to think that Captain Vimes of The Night Watch was doing this  _ on purpose _ . This was a puzzle. The normal pieces had not done it so it was time to start applying more singular methods to this issue. Because it was becoming an issue. Havelock Vetinari did not enjoy when there were parts of the city that he could not dissect mentally. And as long as Captain Vimes remained undefined and moorless he would be a problem. 

 

“Have one of the more discreet clarks follow the Captain around for—oh say, a month, and report on his behavior,” Vetinari ordered with the hourly passing of documents.

 

“Any particular behavior for priority?” Drumknott asked, handing back a fresh stack including the second half of the day’s appointments. 

 

“Whenever he gets his spirits up.” Vetinari waved the other man off. Soon he would have an answer, and he could put the issue out of his mind. For now, he had a meeting with Lord Rust to sit through, a rather boring affair for teatime but such were the sacrifices one had to make as Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. 

 

* * *

 

After the business with the gonne, Vetinari had not so much forgotten about the report waiting for him as he had moved it to the bottom of the pile. He was adjusting to walking with a cane and did not need the distraction of The Issue at present. 

 

Still, there was only so much procrastination that could be allowed if one was trying to remain a productive person. The Issue had been secondary to getting the city under control and the item locked away. And now, both were accomplished and he was looking a dwindling bits of paperwork. 

 

“Drumknott, I shall like a glass of water now,” Vetinari inquired to his clark, who stood shocked at the request by the door.

 

“Sir? It’s not yet—” Drumknott began.

 

“I fear I will need it.” Vetinari did not know what the report would contain but he knew it would not be news he wanted. 

 

What he wanted was Samuel Vimes distracted on his off-hours. What the city needed was a Commander of the Watch who had loyalties outside himself and his men. Even if Vimes sunk his entire life into the Watch, he  _ needed _ to have something else he cared about or he would go mad. And when men like Vimes went mad it meant terrible things for a city like Ankh-Morpork.

 

Drumknott brought the glass of water. Vetinari read the report and then drank most of it, slowly. 

 

“Fetch his file, Drumknott,” Vetinari ordered, coming to a decision. 

 

* * *

 

Samuel Vimes, Commander of the Watch—ye gods, both Day and Night—looked at the neat summons in his hand. Normally he just went to the Palace because he had a regular appointment or because a clark appeared out of a coach and told Vimes to get in because he was  _ late _ for an appointment with his Lordship. 

 

This summons had been handed to Angua at the door of the watch house without fanfare or threats or even a carriage waiting. Vimes didn’t know what to do with that information. There were really only two reasons he went to the palace, because he was ordered to or because he was barging in to shout. This was not an order. It didn’t feel like an order. That was the most horrifying thing he had thought all week. 

 

“Sir?” Colon asked. 

 

“I have to go to the Palace,” Vimes answered because saying it any other way felt wrong. 

 

He was still in something of a mental fog or daze by the time he stood on the Palace steps. His body moved him inside while his mind took a brief nap. It was not an entirely restful nap, but rather the nap of one who has taken something for an allergic reaction and not remembered that it makes them unconscious as a side effect. 

 

He was seated at a table by the time his mind woke itself groggily from allergy-induced sleep to full uncomfortable and painful sobriety. Lord Vetinari sat at his left, smoothing a napkin over his lap. Vimes tried to recall exactly how he ended up at the table, a dinner table no less, but he was given only hazy images as his brain attempted to clamber out of its bed and back to work. 

 

Food was put in front of him by someone who might have been a clark but was probably a servant. Vimes picked up a spoon because he wasn’t entirely sure what else to do. The table was only set for the two of them. Vetinari, at least for the moment, did not seem inclined to conversation. Leaving Vimes to run a series of nightmare scenarios in his mind. His brain knew how to do that. The one with Lord Rust and the tentacles was particularly nightmarish. 

 

Vimes was sure he ate the food, but he was not entirely sure how or when. The food was in front of him, and then his plate was empty, and then someone came and took it away. Something that could generously be called desert was brought out. It looked like porridge. It tasted like slightly sweet porridge. Warning bells that sounded like they were coming from inside Vimes’ head began to ring as something resembling understanding started to form. 

 

“Are you finished?” Vetinari inquired after a time.

 

“Um—” Vimes looked down at his empty dessert plate and the half-eaten plate in front of Vetinari. “Yes.” Vetinari nodded and hummed a single sound briefly.

 

“Come along,” Vetinari said. Vimes was going to stick with said because it wasn’t an order: the tone was all wrong. It wasn’t loud enough to be a bark. It was softer and something closer to a please in the tone of voice. Large parts of Vimes were now getting together to talk about how they were going to handle this. The different parts of him did not yet have a consensus and thus he simply thought of the word “said” and then stood up and followed The Patrician out of the room, down a series of corridors and into another room.

 

It wasn’t the Oblong Office. Or the Rats Chamber. It was a room Vimes had never seen before. It contained a desk, two sitting chairs, and a cabinet. There was only one window, and it was small and up rather high. There was something like an isle in the corner of the room but no painting sat on it and the shape was… off. A small but happy fire burned in the grate making the room warmer than most of the palace.

 

Vetinari took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs, placing his cane next to the arm. He didn’t turn and order Vimes to sit. In fact, the Patrician didn’t move to acknowledge Vimes at all. He simply sat down and smoothed out some wrinkles on his all-black robe. Vimes sat down in the other chair because he had not been dismissed. This wasn’t a normal appointment with the Lord of the City, and the parts of him that weren’t horrified and attempting to run for the hills were the parts of him that were Ankh-Morpork to the core. Those parts wanted to know what  _ the show _ was going to be, and they were willing to wait until it started. 

 

Lord Vetinari studied Vimes. Vimes stared at the fire and hoped for this to end soon. 

 

“Smoke?” Vetinari asked. Vimes jerked his head up in astonishment at the question. The Patrician stood up and walked over to the desk in the center of the room. He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of cigars. He handed the box containing a light to an awestruck Vimes. Vimes lit a cigar and put the box down on the very large arm of the chair he was sitting in. 

 

As he inhaled, something cold pressed across his throat and Vime froze so completely he stopped breathing. The smoke in his lungs burned, but every single brain cell was telling Vimes  _ not to move _ . 

 

“It took a very long time to figure out,” Lord Vetinari said from over Vimes’ shoulder. His tone was not conversational. It was softer. Warmer. Something a thousand times more deadly. “You should be commended for that.” Vetinari went on, and as he spoke the cold thing which turned out to be the handle of his cane, traveled from over Vimes’ throat to where his pulse beat. It moved slowly, like a predator that knew its prey was wounded and did not need to tire itself out with the chase. 

 

“Sir,” Vimes tried his old standby but the action of speaking made the cool metal bob against his skin, and he swallowed at the sensation, a mistake for it only brought on another brush of metal. 

 

“I had thought a wife would be the solution. Someone respectable but spirited. We had several very good candidates who would have done the job nicely.” The cane turned gently, pressing against Vimes’ airway and making his next inhale slightly ragged. “When that did not work we tried some more— _ alternative methods _ .” It was almost a purr, gods damn. “However, all of those were met equally with disinterest.” The cane moved away a moment, and Vimes inhaled sharply before it returned. 

 

“Sir,” Vimes gasped as now cool fingers brushed his neck in place of the cane. 

 

“You are a very singular man, Samuel,” Vetinari offered, like he was pleased with his dog, and a very traitorous part of Vimes wanted to sit up at the praise. “I really had not expected that it would come to something like this.” Something warm and leathery slid across Vimes’ throat, and then encircled it entirely. He gulped. 

 

Vetinari came around the chair and stood in front of Vimes. His expression was not so much a smile as the afterimage of a smirk, its muscles relaxing after having experienced smug pleasure. 

 

“Tell me Commander, are you familiar with the concept of a Safe Word?” Vetinari asked in a voice that sounded exactly like a cat in front of a large and quivering bowl of milk. 

 

He wasn’t going to die. That was almost completely certain. But he was going to wish that had been an option, he felt. 

 

* * *

 

The report had contained information that boiled down thusly: the only person Commander Samuel Vimes ever experienced “high spirits” with or around, outside of direct members of the watch or the criminals he was arresting, was Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.

 

Vimes appeared to take both pleasure and pain in following orders from the Patrician as well as thwarting direct orders. He seemed to loath direct praise of any kind but was deeply affected when given it. The very few times he blushed almost always had something to do with the more… kinky topics.

 

There was a second, more exuberant page in the report, from one of the junior clarks. She used words like “sapio-sexual” and nearby was “demi-sexual” along with “authority kink” and slightly lower down the page there was a paragraph about “versatile bottom” and “in desperate need for subspace”. Havelock had needed an entire glass of water just for that page alone. It was rather illuminating. However, he made a note to have the clark promoted and given charge of writing up similar reports on major personalities in the city. One never knew what kind of information could be useful. 

 

He had not made his decision lightly. There were other avenues that could have been pursued. A new list could have been compiled of possible suitors that would fit the bill for what appeared to get the Captain going. It would have taken time and would not be a quickes of  solutions, however, it would have left the Patrician without needless complications.

 

Havelock had dedicated his life to the pursuit of Patrician. He had hacked off parts of his personality as a teen with the sole goal of reaching this point. The city  _ worked _ . It worked because he made it work, and it kept working because he never let any of the little cogs or gears get too squeaky. This particular gear had squeaked long enough.

 

It was a gamble to be sure. It would open him up to a series of possibilities he had closed the book on years ago. Other contingencies would need to be planned. It would be….  _ An expense _ . It would leave him vulnerable, and Havelock had made it his mission in life to never be vulnerable.

 

Perhaps it would be a very good idea to keep the bright Miss Dowell very far away from his person now that she was to be promoted. It wouldn’t do for any  _ other _ members of the living to know such things about him.

 

* * *

 

There was a conversation. At least Vimes thought it had been a conversation because at the end he had agreed to it. There had been talk about relaxation and the importance of hobbies on the mind, and Vimes was nearly certain he had said words back to that bit. After that came a series of phrases about tensions and then some words Vimes didn’t know but those words had been accompanied by Vetinari trailing a single finger slowly over the top of his hand. He was almost certain the only response he had at that point was his customary, “Sir”. 

 

This was about the point in the conversation that felt like a bit of a monologue and had included the offer for Vimes to leave and never to speak of this again. Vetinari had stepped away from the chair and strode lightly over to the desk to allow Vimes to make the choice without any physical barriers. He should have stood up. There was a very small man in his head shouting that he was going to stand up and walk out of this tucked-away room in the Palace and never ever, ever think about all those words he hadn’t recognized again. 

 

Only he had stayed completely seated because when he took a deep breath in he could feel the leather around his neck, and it made him shiver. Minutes had ticked by with the slowness of treacle melting on a hot day, and then in a silent shadow, Vetinari, was back in front of Vimes.

 

Tonight was going to be simple he had said. All Vimes had to do now was stay very, very still. He didn’t need to talk or move or even think. His only job was to sit in this chair and not move his arms or legs. 

 

“Sir,” Vimes had agreed.

 

Vetinari had reached forward and pulled lightly on the leather around Vimes’ neck, a test of sorts it felt like, but Vimes had remain motionless.

 

“Very good,” Vetinari praised in a low voice that Vimes had never heard before, not even in the conversation they had just had. He wanted to disagree because that was his natural instinct but he had been ordered not to move, so he simply said, “Sir.” 

 

It was weaker than he normally managed because long nimble fingers reached out to open the buttons on his shirt. Vimes wasn’t in his armor, he was off-duty and had been told it wouldn’t be needed. It was an older brown shirt that would double as an undershirt on cold nights, but right now it felt heavy on his skin.

 

He wondered if looking down counted as moving. It probably did. Slowly his shirt was opened, a button at a time. The little pop of each freed latch sounded loud in the silent room. Vimes swallowed. He tried to remember how many buttons were on this shirt. The fabric was moved aside, and Vimes could feel his chest exposed to the air of the room, which against all evidence to the contrary, felt cool. 

 

The bottom tip of what must have been the cane with its nearly sharp metal edge caught one of Vimes’ nipples and gave it a flick upwards. He jerked, hard, gasping out a startled breath. Vetinari didn’t say anything he simply stood back, away from the chair, completely out of reach and quirked a single brow at Vimes.

 

The bastard, Vimes thought as he dug his hands into the grips on the armrests and squared out his legs so that he was tense and bracing against the support of the chair.

 

“Sir,” Vimes asked. Vetinari stalked forward like a cat, a lazy saunter of a predator that knew its prey was actually a fluffy ball that had no chance of escape. 

 

His view was limited at this position. He could see, at this moment, the hair at Vetinari’s temple that was beginning to grey and the soft curve of his ear. Everything else was out of his direct line of sight and would require looking down or tilting his head downwards. Vimes had the impression those would be considered moving and stop the proceedings as well. 

 

The impression of touch swept over his chest and arms. The hair moved but his skin felt no sensation. It was maddening. Holding completely still was starting to take more and more effort. Vimes had to concentrate on keeping his joints locked in position. He barely felt the tie at his trousers being moved, but he did feel the lack of pressure there suddenly. 

 

Samuel Vimes, Captain of The Watch, gulped loudly and panted slightly with his mouth open. 

 

“Commander, you are to wait for my word, are we clear?” Vetinari asked coming fully into view again. His face had the barest of blushes but he was still perfectly composed, covered in black from neck to ankle. Not even his wrists were showing. In contrast, Vimes sat in the chair with his shirt pulled wide and his trousers open, exposing him to the cool air of the room.

 

“Sir,” Vimes panted in agreement. He realized as Vetinari dropped from view that they had been playing this game for a long time, longer than Vimes had realized. This was simply the final layer to the board. He concentrated on this thought because not being able to see exactly what he was experiencing left him aching.

 

The natural response that his body demanded would be to thrust up into the wet warm heat around him, but he had been ordered to hold completely still. Vimes took deep breaths, feeling the press of leather against his skin with each inhalation. His mind dropped into someplace else. A soft easy place where the hard press of a cane against his chest couldn’t shake him. Waiting felt easy suddenly even with a tingle at the base of his spine and a hot lick causing his toes to curl.

 

Commander Vimes had an excellent sense of time normally, a trait every good watchman learned over the years. Bad watchmen never learn and thus were too early or too late to crimes, because they didn’t know how to pace themselves. Sam Vimes could pace himself. He could stand in the dark on a cold night for hours. Watching the soft colors of fire against a white wall seemed like child’s play in comparison, nevermind all the other things happening to him. 

 

He was slick with sweat when the order came. A soft, slightly hoarse, “You may come now,” and Vimes felt his body go white-hot with pleasure. Millions of little neurons lit up at once in his brain sending multiple conflicting messages. The few neurons that controlled the older part of his brain sent out their own signal telling everything to shut up for a moment so they figure out what was going on. The effect was like a computer being rebooted. In fact, the effect was exactly like a computer being rebooted because humans have only ever been able to build things in their own images and what are computers but primitive digital brains?

 

When he opened his eyes, Vetinari was sitting in the chair across the fire from him. A glass of water was on the edge of the arm rest. Vimes drank it because his mouth was dry. Water wasn’t what he wanted, too clear and no alcohol. After something like that, a man was allowed to have a drink, hell, a man should be legally required to have whiskey after something like…. That. 

 

Vimes shivered. Vetinari stood, and in passing the chair Vimes was sitting in brushed his fingers into Vimes’ hair, tangling them momentarily. 

 

“You did exceptionally well Commander.” Vetinari’s voice was sounded huskier. With his head tilted slightly back from the slight pull of fingers, Vimes could see Vetinari’s lips were vaguely red and mildly swollen. “Better than could be expected for a man of your age.” An eyebrow lifted.

 

It was a key in a lock, a switch being flipped and the rest of the lights coming on in a room that had only been half lit. Vimes was suddenly angry and knew in some bone-deep part of him that he was allowed to talk back now because this wasn’t the game, or a report, this was something else. This was the part where he normally hit the wall and ruined the plaster. 

 

“Why you—” he began, his hands moving for the first time, stiff fingers trying to do up his trousers as pins and needles and all other sewing and knitting equipment stabbed at the digits as punishment for disuse.

 

“I’m afraid it will have to wait until our next appointment—Sam.” Vetinari met his enraged eye contact, and just for the briefest of seconds a smile played at The Patricians lips. “I have pressing business.”  _ Was that an innuendo?  _ “You are free to use the room for as long as you need. I trust that you can see yourself out.” Vetinari removed his long fingers from Vimes’ hair, and he felt betrayed that some of his treacherous vocal chords decided a moan was the response to this abandonment. The Patrician didn’t wait around for Vimes to finish dressing and build up enough rage to storm after him. By the time Vimes could make his legs listen to him, the traitors, Vetinari was long gone, _ the bastard _ . 

 

He was all the way back to Pseudopolis yard before his brain caught up to the fact that Vetinari had called him  _ Sam _ . Whole quadrants of the landscape of his mind shut down to redirect power to the parts necessary to function. It was this particular revelation and consequent mental shutdown that kept Vimes from realizing he was still wearing the thin leather collar.

 

_In fact_ it took him _two days_ for the sectors of his brain that catalogued physical sensation to come completely back online after their forced power outage. 


	2. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like near death experiences to force feelings out of their cupboard in the back of the brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not beta’d because none of the betas have FINISHED THIS BOOK, so they are not allowed. If the commas seem to be everywhere and no where that’s why. I have no idea what to do with them. I am throwing them in, Fred Colon style, with ballistic abandon. Additionally, I might have Vimes rank wrong in a few places. I tried to catch them all. Forgive me.
> 
> [This chapter is inspired by the following pictures. ](http://gaywerewolfmarried.tumblr.com/post/174272855395) I once again blame @ rebelflet on tumblr for inspiring this entire thing and forcing me down a spiral of this ship.

The Gall! The absolute outrage! Vimes fumed in the privacy of his own mind, or at least he tried to only it must have been showing because Colon had started easing out of his way earlier today. Even Carrot had asked if Vimes was getting enough sleep, so clearly he was not doing the best job of keeping  _ this thing _ inside his head. 

 

Yesterday, Vimes had made a wrong turn. A Wrong Turn! In his city! Vetinari was going pay for being such a distracting bastard just as soon as Vimes could work up the courage to  _ do something _ about it. 

 

Oh, he had seen The Patrician since their little  _ appointment _ , for daily reports and the like, but Vimes had yet to get beyond the routine of some basic info and a handful of bland “Sir”s. Then there would be a long pause and Vetinari would give his customary “Don’t let me detain you” dismissal and Vimes was punching the wall outside the door and going about his day without addressing  _ the thing _ .

 

He still had the leather around his neck. That was the worst part. He had reached up to take it off the other day and then found himself, instead, with his trousers off and a mess on his hands. Similar experiences had occured the last two times he tried to remove the leather. 

 

Vimes was dedicated to calling it leather and not another name, the same way a person with small children is dedicated to  _ not saying _ the word ice cream before it is actually time for the children to have some. He was concerned that if he called the thing around his neck anything other than leather that part of his brain might realize what was going on and revolt on principal. Or get unjustly excited. He was unclear which outcome would be worse but both were disastrous. 

 

Vimes hoped that if he gave his anger enough time to build up it would eventually go off like a kettle and he could finally  _ do something _ about this. He simply had to give himself time and then all of the problems would be solved. Because time made people  _ more angry _ not less. 

 

Right?

 

-

 

Vetinari was shocked really that one of the plots to overthrow him had actually gotten a leg up and managed to put on a pair of trousers, in the metaphorical sense. He did not immediately figure out which one or how they were doing it. Despite the rumors, he was quiet human and subject to mistakes. Still, he was impressed. 

After, of course, he got over the part where he was slightly delirious. He had one truly terrible day, filled with Vimes shouting, and then a Dwarf and a man who smelled like horses shoving things in his mouth before he figured it out. 

 

He was rather grateful that no matter what he was being poisoned with he had the presence of mind to keep up his journal in his code. Some of this more colorful notes had been thoughts about Commander Vimes. Those did not need to be read by others. Or by the Commander for that matter. 

 

The Patrician sat in the complete darkness of a random bedroom and contemplated his next move. He could tell Vimes he had located the source of the poison, but where the fun be in that? No, he decided, he would leave things as they were. Let Samuel Vimes figure it out in his own due time.

 

This particular predicament offered the perfect opportunity to teach some of his foes an important lesson. Let the leash slip through is fingers, so to speak. If, by chance, the Commander of the watch got his act together in the process that would be a bonus. 

 

-

 

Sam Vimes’ default emotion is anger. The vice president is spite. They run a very well oiled tyranny over the other soppy emotions that can slow a man down. Anger, has the ability to wear many outfits. Right now, anger is wearing something that might distinctly be worry, but it would take someone with several advanced, and semi useless, degrees to figure that out.

 

Worry is a soppy emotion that leads to panic. Panic being the second soppiest of emotions. If he panicked he would think about what loosing Vetinari would actually mean. Panic in its soft clothes tries to say things about the city crumbling and Vimes losing something special, and all the pain and suffering that would follow. So he beats that feeling down into the pit of his stomach and focuses on things that he can control. 

 

Like a dumbwaiter.

 

It turns out to be yet another dead end and Vimes is forced to end another day with  _ No Answers _ . It rattles. Sets his anger on edge, teetering towards another emotion that Vimes will not acknowledge. 

 

He stands in front of Vetinari’s sick bed, ramrod stiff, clenching and unclenching his fists, desperate to punch something but knowing it won't improve thing. A traitorous part of him wants to punch Vetinari because that would feel like direct action.  The Patrician looks at Vimes from his prone position on the bed, his face utterly unreadable. A part of Vimes is happy he can’t tell what the other man is thinking.

 

_ What the hell would I do if I could? _

 

“Sir,” Vimes says. It’s supposed to be stiff and formal and bland. It sounds cracked at the edges.

 

Damn. 

 

-

 

Havelock blinks. He shall have to give the commander a hint tomorrow, if he has not worked it out for himself. He is not a cruel man and watching Vimes like that was painful, and not in the rewarding way. 

 

Which leads to a rather  _ inconvenient  _ revelation. 

 

Well.

 

If he is to be made vulnerable to anyone, perhaps, it's best that that man be Samuel Vimes. 

 

-

 

The gods of the Disc enjoy a good story and they do so love a resolution to the plots at hand. At least, that is what can be assumed by the cleanliness with which all matters were resolved. 

 

The Golem King was smashed to very tiny bits, that would have made good pottery but no one dared use it. 

 

Dorfl was now a member of The Watch. Partly because Carrot had proven that Dorfl had a consciousness and also because it seemed to piss off the really rich people in Ankh-Morpork. Sam Vimes enjoyed anything in life that made the truly rich deeply upset. 

 

That had been one of the motivations for the fire. Allegedly. Of course, no one could prove how the ancestral records went up in flames. The culprit would never be caught. Not that there was a culprit according to official records. Havelock had a private moment where he allowed himself on distinct laugh at the entire scenario. Surely, Commander Vimes had enjoyed himself for longer, with the knowledge of what was destroyed. 

 

It made the point. That was what was important in the end. Those who had conspired and thought themselves clever were now at a loss. A great loss some would say. And The Patrician’s terrier had been let off his leash in the interim. None of them had enjoyed that part at all. They shuddered, collectively, at the thought of what could happen should Vetinari ever die while Sam Vimes lived. 

 

None realized that the opposite scenario would yield equally terrifying results. 

 

-

  
  


“May I make an observation, my lord?” 

 

“Of course you may,” said Vetinari, watching Vimes walk through the palace gates.

 

“The thought occurs, sir, that if Commander Vimes did not exist you would have had to invent him.”

 

“You know, Drumknott, I rather think I did.” Vetinari allowed himself to experience several very uncomfortable moments of real emotion before he went about getting back to the business of running the city. What those emotions were, only he knew and really that information would just be too difficult to extract. The best trained torture on the Disc would never get an answer. Wuffles might have been able to get Vetinari to admit the names of those emotions but he was sworn to secrecy. Never mind the dog part.

 

-

 

Vimes was rather proud of himself for waiting as long as he did. It turned out that he  _ could _ bottle up his anger, and let it age like top shelf Bear Huggers Whiskey. Vetinari had plenty of time to recover from the poison and get back to running the city before the cork finally came out of that particular bottle. Vimes ripped it out with his teeth one night after he went off duty. 

 

He had been sitting in the room above the watch house thinking, well actually what he had been thinking had nothing to do with his later actions. He had been thinking about hiring Zombies. An action he had taken in direct response to some posh toffer who ran a sweatshop. And because this was Samuel Vimes his mind had said ‘ _ what else can we do that would make the rich really really cross? _ ’

 

This was the exact moment that a very small, dark voice, that lived inside him said ‘ _ we could fuck Vetinari _ ’ in a tone that can only be described as  _ glee _ . 

 

Vimes understood of course that  _ no one _ could know. That  _ this thing _ The Patrician started had to stay in a little box in the back of his mind and not come out while he was in mixed company, or any company for that matter. But another part of him thought having a few more things in that box would be a really good way to get through state dinners. 

 

Vimes left his armor in his room. He didn’t want to have to worry about all the buckles tonight.

 

-

 

He knew the palace better now, had a mental map of where the room he needed to find was located. The guards at the door didn’t even glance at him as he stormed in, clearly in one of his moods. The difficulty, however, turned out to be locating The Patrician. Vetinari was not in the Oblong Office, and after the multitude of bed chambers they had moved him to over the course of the case Vimes could no longer remember which room  _ actually _ belonged to the man. The search of the palace did give Vimes enough time to work himself up into a right honest lather. 

 

When Vetinari was finally located, in  _ the room _ of all places, Vimes didn’t really have much of a plan left in his head. He simply moved forward. 

 

The Patrician had been standing when Vimes walked into the room, facing away from the door. He turned at Vimes’ approach and something that might have been a smile crosses his eyes.

 

“Ah, Commander,” Vetinari began placidly, like this was a normal conversation, like they weren’t in  _ the room _ , like Vimes didn’t have a piece of leather around his neck.

 

“You don’t get to die slow,” Vimes panted out, advancing on the other man. “No one gets to overthrow you, no assassinations,” He continued forward, shoving Vetinari back. “When you go down, it’s going to be  _ me _ .” Vimes growled.

 

Vetinari was backed against a wall now. Vimes didn’t remember pushing them all the way to the side of the room but he must have because they were chest to chest with brick supporting Vetinari from behind. 

 

“Is that a promise,” Vetinari’s voice was low and not soft, “Sam?”

 

It was the use of his first name, in this room, that pulled the cork out of the bottle inside him. There was a pop, but in reverse because two things coming together does not sound exactly like two things coming apart. Mouths tend to make more of a blunt sound against one another. Perhaps it was a sound that came from somewhere in Vimes’ chest. 

 

In writing, these moments often are said to take place quickly, that is because writers do not enjoy talking about the awkwardness that it is to put your mouth on the mouth of another. Or the fact that no one in the history of humanity has ever really known what to do with their hands when the menu for the night suddenly turns to activities that involve nudity and slippery substances. 

 

Vimes kept his hands on the wall because they were already there and it seems like a decent enough place for hands while he went about his actual purpose. The mouths bit was quite good, actually. Sam was surprised to find he still remembered how to do this because it had been some time since he kissed anyone and he had always assumed that Vetinari didn’t engage in activities that most would considered part of normal human development. 

 

Part of him thought that Vetinari must have been created, exactly as he appeared now, without all the messy parts where limbs were too long and sleep made no sense to the brain. But, the evidence now spoke of someone who must have at some point kissed because that kind of skill with a tongue was not something one was born with.

 

Truthfully the skill of the last time they were here really should have made Sam realize that Vetinari had hidden depths, but something about that night sat in a haze in his mind, separate from his daily interactions. This night would probably have the same fate. 

 

Air was needed eventually and when Vimes pulled his head back Vetinari changed the rules by finally doing something with his hands. A rough grip on his ass pulled their hips into each other. He inhalled at the firm length against his hip and the sensation of pressure against his own. The first thrust was reactionary. The second was his body chasing that feeling. The third was in response to the grip on his ass getting tighter, pulling him in and encouraging him. 

 

His lips found flesh, the smooth slip of neck that could be seen around Vetinari’s robes, and latched on. Vetinari moaned, a long low sound that vibrated the both of them. Sam pulled at the catch of the robe with his teeth, revealing more smooth expense for his mouth. His hands left the wall to pull the other man toward him, trying desperately to get closer, to crawl inside one another. 

 

It felt like  _ the chase _ . It felt like the best moments of being a copper. It felt better than that actually, because the most powerful man in the city was out of breath and in Vimes’ arms. He ground them together, finding a rhythm with his hips and holding Vetinari to him. A part of him was aware that the attention he was paying to the skin beneath his mouth was leaving marks but a more reasonable part of his brain pointed out that it was low enough for clothes to cover. 

 

Samuel Vimes could feel the moment coming from somewhere in his bones. This thing was more than just their actions in this room and he suddenly understood it with a sharp clarity. The pounding of Vetinari’s heart against his own chest. The harsh gasps in his ears that drove him to move, harder, faster, more, all of it belonged to Vimes in a way he had not before understood. 

It was this clarity that made Sam lift his head from Vetinari’s collar bone, lift a hand off the other man’s ass and reach for the back of his head, and thrust at a new pace.

 

“Havelock,” Sam breathed into a kiss. The cracked, slightly broken noise that came out of Havelock Vetinari’s mouth was swallowed by Samuel Vimes in that instant. The bright white pleasure of his release turning the moment to a kaleidoscope in his mind. 

 

-

 

There was a bedroom two doors down. It was one of the ones they had rotated Vetinari into during the week when they were searching for the source of the poison. 

 

The bottle was open and the fizz had come out but the mass of everything that had been building up was not empty yet. 

 

It took them little time to get to the room. The logistics were not overly complicated. In no time at all  Vimes was kneeling over Vetinari searching for something to use. 

 

“This seems rather dangerous,” Vetinari pointed out when Vimes grabbed the excess lamp oil and poured some onto his hand. 

 

“Sir,” Vimes quipped. Here, with them both in a bed and stripped bare he found that saying it felt entirely different. Vetinari didn’t get a chance to respond because Vimes pushed two fingers in with very little resistance. 

 

Vimes enjoyed the feel of those long elegant fingers digging into his back as he worked his callous covered fingers into the other man. The energy was less frantic and yet the urgency was not gone. Vimes  _ had _ to make sure that he was very clear. What he needed to say couldn’t be put into words so he worked the meaning into his body.

 

He pressed his point into Vetinari with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers. He covered the other man and pressed into him, holding him. Making something he felt known through action because Samuel Vimes understood action better than he did politics or words. 

 

He replaced his fingers and held onto Havelock with a death grip. It was in a way. Sam sealed a promise of death before separation into their skin. Pounded it in with a steady rhythm. 

 

The point was getting across, or it felt like Havelock understood him, keeping his own comments to a minimum. Human language was not what they needed right now. Vimes was using a language older than walking apes to explain. In the gasps and soft hums, it appeared that Vetinari was getting the message clearly. 

 

This time it was less dramatic, or perhaps more. Simply more drawn out. Vetinari pulled tight and arched before Vimes. A rush of pressure raced down in his spine. Watching Havelock turn a shade of pink all down his chest pulled a feeling down into Vimes that exploded out of him at his release. 

 

He felt spent. Emptied out. Finally understood. 

 

-

 

The bottle was now empty but the glass remained. Vimes felt an itch he couldn’t scratch. His head buzzed in a way that hurt. He lay there and tried to be calm, to enjoy it and yet he couldn’t. 

 

“If I might be so bold,” Vetinari began, standing up, “I believe I can give you the feeling you are searching for.”

 

“I doubt it,” Vimes sighed. He knew this feeling. The feeling that made him want a drink. Only he couldn’t have a drink. Vetinari came around the bed and pulled on the leather around Vimes throat.

 

“I was not aware of a request being made,” Vetinari bit out the words, it sent a new shiver down Vimes’ spine.

 

-

 

Sam Vimes had always enjoyed the freedom of purpose, of duty. Or perhaps he enjoyed the crushing weight of duty. It depended on the day. 

 

It was a simple thing to develop a routine that took off some of the weight, or put it back on depending on the day, of course. 

 

When Vimes needed one or the other he would stomp over to the Palace to get it. When he needed to take it off he pushed at Vetinari with an open palm and The Patrician let him lead them to a bed or a desk or a wall. Those days it would be with a kind of deep seated urgency. Fast is not the word but the pace of their activity was quick and left them both gasping.

 

Those days were about Vimes making a point. Proving that he mattered, in more than one way. That  _ this _ was important. 

 

On days when Vimes needed the other thing, when he needed something he wasn’t allowed anymore, he would show up and sit down and wait. Vetinari would pull on the leather around Vimes’ neck and lead him to a spot in the room. It would be slow, still almost, in comparison to the other days. 

 

Vimes would lay, nearly motionless, with his legs spread wide, over the edge of a writing desk while Vetinari ran long fingers through his hair and along Vimes’ flanks. The fingers would be slow inside him. Vetinari even slower. There were other bits of leather that would come out from time to time, for his wrists, for his legs. He learned that wooden thing in the corner had little hooks for the pieces of leather and could hold him still when he wanted to fight.

 

It would leave him truly empty, without an itch in his brain. 

 

Those days were about breaking the glass and releasing the thing Vimes didn’t talk about. It was about proving a different kind of point. That Vimes mattered. That they mattered. Not as Captain and Patrician but as Sam and Havelock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Is this too much sex?  
> Alpha reader Jane: No.  
> Me: I was thinking of adding…. A lot more.  
> Alpha reader Jane: You totally should.  
> Me: *does just that.  
> Me: I could add more still.  
> Jane: Yes!  
> Me: this is how fics spiral out of control. I gotta reel it in.  
> Jane: Alyse, come on. Give us the smut!  
> Me: Maybe if there is a lot more demand i can write more.
> 
> [Come bother me on tumblr! ](http://alyseofwonderland.tumblr.com)
> 
> (but seriously i had like 8 ideas for how they should fuck and i had to bring it down like all the way to make this publishable)

**Author's Note:**

> [come find me on tumblr and bother me if you want more.](http://alyseofwonderland.tumblr.com/) I respond well to keyboard smashes and headcanons and high-pitched screeching.


End file.
